Poems May 2000
The owner of the house
The movers came, and took
her bed, table, everything,
until the house was empty.
at night, in a dark dress,
and so she was hit.
A driver who had seen it
said that he thought someone
threw a doll up in the air.
I found some smaller things
that had been overlooked.
A fish made of wood.
A bell, perhaps for calling
a cat. Every night
one comes around and mourns.
A hidden drawer with thread
and needle, thimble, things
as hidden as a heart.
She let the house run down,
the garden be overgrown,
lost in her arcane studies.
They had to do with the eye
of a fish that she had found
somewhere in Mexico.
A neighbor disconnected
the refrigerator, but did not
think to empty it. Fishes stink.
I open the door of a cabinet,
and forget to close it again
whack! The side of my head.
Just to remind you,
she whispers, its my house.
The carpenters are hard at work
I need more space. She stands
watching a while, and leaves.
Shell have the run of it still.
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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 18 Number 9, on page 38
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